


Wishes and Wants and Curses and Bargains

by Carbon65



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Bargains, Do not post to another site, Faeries Made Them Do It, M/M, No Dialogue, Non-Graphic Violence, Trans Character, Wishes, think tam lin but more niche, un-beta'd, we die like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21882748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbon65/pseuds/Carbon65
Summary: Racer has three wishes to spend. Finch wants to be who he is. Crutchie wants a future. Jack wants a strike. Albert just wants some lamb. Luckily, there’s Magic in Brooklyn and for a few pennies and an honest answer, you can trade for your heart’s desire.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	Wishes and Wants and Curses and Bargains

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for [drunkendragons](https://drunkendragons.tumblr.com/) as part of newsies secret santa 2019. 
> 
> You said you liked basically any kind of magic. So I tried to write magic. And, sometimes writing magic, that means writing some sort of faerie tale, which somehow never end up bright or pleasant as Disney would have you believe. And sometimes, writing magic turns into a 12K monstrosity that decided to run away with you. So, umm, I hope that you like this. Happy Holidays and best wishes for 2020.
> 
> \-- Pigeon
> 
> **Warnings**  
Non-graphic depictions of violence; canon-typical violence; faery-tale violence; assumed and actual character death (real death is ghosts); ethnic slurs; gender dysphoria; offers of a magical cure; fairy bargains

> Love could not save her from the bargains others had made.

Thomm Quackenbush _Find What You Love and Let It Kill You_

* * *

For the record that no one is keeping, Finch thinks this might be a bad idea. In fairness to Finch, he thinks _a lot_ of the things Racer does are bad ideas, and so many it shouldn’t be surprising that this one is, too. Racer once tried to see if he could live off of pickles and popcorn for a week. He bet Kloppman a month’s rent on a card game and ended up, umm… carrying the banner. For two weeks. In October. And, last month, he… acquired one of those glowing cigars Finch knows they sell up by Harlem, except that Race doesn’t _go_ to Harlem. Race isn’t supposed to go to Harlem since he got in that fight with Doro and the truce Cowboy worked out was that Doro would go to Harlem for good and Racer would stay the hell out. But, this is worse than all of Racer’s past stupid antics put together. This… this… this is far worse. This is Magic.

So, they’re out on a hot, languid July day, heading toward Magic. Race is sauntering along, his smile wide and so full of guile that it tips the scales and cycles back around to something else. Crutchie is following behind, smiling far more genuinely as he slowly but surely works his way through his bag of papes. Finch is somewhere comfortably between the two. He’s not as loud and brash as Racer. He’s not as sweet and approachable as Crutchie. He’s shyer, certainly, and perhaps warier. Racer has been called a dirty Mick in one breath and a lying Hike in the next, but no one has laid hands on him. The men who grabbed Finch in the street last year, last month, last week, called him worse and demanded to know who he thought he was. They’d been soldiers, back from the war and something about his face had angered them. Even though he’s never been to the Philippines and the closest he comes to speaking Spanish are the few words his mother sometimes used when she didn’t want other people to know she was scolding him.  
There is a reason he carries a slingshot. And not just because it’s fun to hit bottles in a back alley. 

He feels himself getting more agitated as they approach The Bridge. It’s a border between the boroughs, and somehow also, a border between two worlds. 

In Manhattan, you can buy almost anything if you know the right places to go and the right people to ask. In the Bowery, there’s a boy with skin the color of coal who can read the future in your hand and in your eyes for a few pennies and a promise of a favor in three months. In the Five Points, old women will ruin someone for a bundle of fresh carrots in February, a pound of good beef, a dollar and a hair ribbon. (Preferably with a few strands of your hair still attached. Or better yet, brushed off onto their parlor rug). There are men in Chinatown who animate the dragons every year and make them breathe fire. But, Manhattan has small magic: marshwater charms and street chicanery. The boy in the Bowery reads your future in your clothes and carriage and manner as much as anything he might see on your palm. The grannies of the Five Points have grandchildren who slip through the shadows unseen and big sons who can threaten. And the Chinatown dragons still have human dancers underneath them and Finch knows a few people who can breathe fire with preparation, alcohol, and a candle. 

Brooklyn is different. They say that people who go to Brooklyn come back changed. Jojo knows a kid who’s cousin knows a girl who went to Brooklyn and came back with Donkey ears and a tail. Davey had scoffed and said that was what happened in faerie land in Shakesphere and Jojo had just raised his brows, knowingly. And Al told him that in Brooklyn, you should never give your name. Which is why none of them call each other by their real ones. And that you should have a pocket full of iron. Silas went with his real name and empty pockets, and he came back cracked in the head. Well, more cracked in the head, spouting about Spot Conlon and taxes and seven years. And, most damning of all, Blink and Mush had gone to Brooklyn last year and only Blink had come back. They’d gone together and he’d come back like a thief in the night, missing the eye he’d always been so proud of, to collect their things. And, Finch had asked what had happened and Blink just handed him all of Mush’s bandages and his second best shirt and said Mush wouldn’t need them any more and if that doesn’t say something, he doesn’t know what does. 

He sells his last paper. He should have bought more, but the headline wasn’t good and despite what Cowboy says, headlines do help sell papes. He slows down to see if he can take any of Crutchie’s. Both to lighten his load and to give him something to do. But, all of Crutchie’s are gone as well. Maybe there just aren’t as many newsies in this part of the world? Maybe they know better than to come here. He figures he might as well take Crutchie’s empty bag anyway, and so he takes it and rolls it up inside his own. Crutchie thanks him, rolling his shoulders and shifting on his crutches. He normally uses the one in Manhattan, but there’s a second somewhere at the lodging house for when they have to go far. Finch imagines it’s still hard. So much harder than he has words for. 

Ahead of them, Race saunters and acts like they’re not going where they’re going. But, as they draw toward The Bridge he slows. And pulls them aside. They find a bench to sit on. They eat the bread they brought. It lets Crutchie rest his leg and Finch can twist and crack his back the way Mush taught him to do, and Racer can give them each a bright copper penny and an old iron horse shoe nail and make them swear three times three that they won’t eat anything and won’t drink anything. He makes them swear three times three they won’t leave anything and won’t take anything. And, most importantly, that they steal anything once they cross The Bridge. 

And then, they walk up to The Bridge and without so much as a backward glance to see the safety they’re leaving behind, they step onto that mass of iron and concrete and engineering and human triumph and go out across the water.  
Finch doesn’t think he’s ever been so afraid in his life. 

Race walks more slowly this time so he, Finch, and Crutchie can stay together. Finch is grateful. He feels unnerved, like everything is sideways from how it should be. He imagined Brooklyn as some kind of fairyland: all bright colors and spinning lights and the pictures from the freakshows he sometimes sees in the advertisements for Coney Island. Instead, Brooklyn looks and feels and sounds a lot like Manhattan. They make their way up to the dockyards around men in tophats and men in work clothes and ladies in skirts and boys in knee breeches. And it looks and it sounds and it feels so much the same that Finch is almost tempted to stop when he sees an order of nuns giving out bread. They look so much like the Ladies of Mercy in Manhattan. And then, he remembers what Racer said and snatches his hand back. He won’t get caught here.

They approach the docks where Spot Conlon holds court. Every newsie in Manhattan has heard of Spot Colon. Every newsie in Queens, in Flushing, in Richmond, in Woodside, hell, all the way up to Harlem and the Bronx, they all know Spot Conlon. He’s the most famous newsie in New York, and probably everywhere else in the world, too. The most famous and the most feared. And even the boys who say they’re not afraid of anything say Spot makes them a little bit nervous. So, then, Finch doesn’t know what Racer thinks will come of this: two of Cowboy’s seconds and one of his older boys walking into Brooklyn on personal business.

When they get there, Spot’s sitting up on the dock, looking out to sea. It’s somewhere between the morning edition and the evening, and so if he's sold his papers and turned half the five hundred like they say, he can probably afford to sit on the docks and watch the world. He jumps down and shakes Racer’s hand, though, then Crutchie’s, then Finch’s. He’s warm and open with the other two, genuinely happy to see them. Finch doesn’t know what to think.

Up close, Spot isn’t so scary. He’s intimidating, sure, standing there like a boxer with the weight balanced on his toes and his arms hanging loosely by his sides. But, he looks like an ordinary boy from one of the slums in the city. He looks like he could have come from Five Points, maybe, or on Mulberry Street. And then, the sunlight glances gold off the key around his neck and for a moment, something about his eyes change and his hair changes and he’s brighter somehow like a headache and so not human after all. And Finch thinks he wants to run, but he’s rooted to the spot. And, he’s not sure if he did he could find his way back to the Bridge and Manhattan and Duane Street anyway. So, he shoves down his fears and stands his ground. 

The story comes out. Racer won three wishes off Spot in a bet. He won’t say what the bet was, and neither will Spot. But, it doesn’t matter because he’s here to collect two. He motions to Crutchie and Finch. 

And Spot turns to them and asks if they know what that means. And when they don’t he takes a gentle swipe at Racer ‘cause the wishes only work if they all want the same thing and they all think it will be good. Otherwise, it’s a curse, and Spot doesn’t do curses for wishes. They’re not the same. They can’t be the same. Not at all.

And so, Racer blurts out that he wants Spot to do for Finch what he did for Mush. And Finch wonders what he did for Race to bring him _here_ to Brooklyn where you can’t eat and you can’t drink and you probably can’t take a piss without being in danger and if you die you’ll probably turn into a ghost and never get rest because this is unholy ground. And Spot looks between the two of them: the proud, hopeful look on Racer’s face and the frightened closed one on Finch’s and he explains.

The bargain - because that’s what it was - the bargain Spot had made with Mush was to exchange Mush’s breasts for the voice and beard and adam’s apple of a girl who didn’t want hers but was desperate for a chest. That, and three Indian head pennies for Spot and three quarters for each day Mrs O'Reilly would help after the exchange and three dollars for the Sea was the price for Mush to lose his chest and gain the beard he wanted.

Finch doesn’t know what to make of this. Part of him knows that Spot pushing Mush off the pier and taking his money is more likely. But, he feels the weight of money in his pocket and thinks of the sock he has stashed away somewhere with a few bills and he wonders if someone else who has a beard or an adam’s apple might want a chest. He wonders if he could make the same bargain. 

And suddenly, he wants it. And he opens his mouth to say so, and Racer shakes his head. Not yet. So, Finch closes his mouth again and waits.

And then, Racer and Spot turn to look at Crutchie. And Crutchie looks back and says he ain’t trading his beard for Finch’s breasts, no matter how nice they might be. Finch bites his lip and doesn’t say that he thinks they are terrible. 

Racer says that he wants Crutchie to walk right again. And Crutchie says walking _right_ aint the problem he’s got: it’s left that’s hard. And Spot huffs out a laugh, but Race looks worried. And then, Crutchie says that maybe what he wants isn’t that, it’s a future. He wants to know that he’ll have a place after he’s done being a newsie.

Finch settles on the crate next to Crutchie’s and bumps against his shoulder softly, and Racer makes a noise in his throat, and Spot looks away and nods. He can make something new, but he can’t undo what’s been made unless he was the one to make it. He could undo Blink’s glass eye, ‘cause that was his, his and the River’s and the Bridge’s and Brooklyn’s. But, Crutchie’s leg ain’t his to change. A future, though… a future is malleable. A future is like a promise all on its own.

Spot nods, and tells them to come back when they’re ready to strike their bargains. He tells Racer to come back when he’s ready to spend his wishes. He tells them his boys are tired and they need to go eat and the evening edition will be coming soon and he needs to talk to Rosie about this. 

Finch and Crutchie nod and collect… there isn’t much to collect. Themselves, mostly, and their thoughts and the fears they don’t want to leave lingering in Brooklyn to feed the monsters. 

They make their way slowly from the dock, following one of Spot’s boys. Racer hangs back, he his some private business to discuss with Spot: borough business, or whatever bet brought them here.

Finch draws close to Crutchie and their guide, trying to ignore the growing shadows and the way his stomach growls and way time runs differently on this side of the Bridge. They’re waiting to cross when Race comes running up empty bag thumping along behind him. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are bright and his eyes are coated in a rim of sparkles that dance across Finch’s own eyes when he looks at them sideways. Race and their guide shake hands, and then Race leads them into the Bridge.

They stop in the middle, over the water, and drop their pennies when Race tells them. They’re a gift - or maybe a payment - to the river for their safe passage from Manhattan and back again. And then, they make their slow, trudging way back to the lodging house, pockets feeling empty despite the fact that they ate nothing and drank nothing, took nothing and left nothing... and somehow, still, it feels like something is missing.

They go up to the third floor, Crutchie leaning heavily on his crutches with the miles they’ve walked, and pay their two dimes. Finch is so tired, so empty, he doesn’t even ask if he has the seed money, just gives his name, his age, his occupation, and the shy confession that he can’t read or write past a name that isn’t his. (He signs the book with an X. He will not write that name. Ever.)

After the lessons about reading and writing and arithmetic and a bible story, and a warning about Magic, they go back to their beds. Normally, Race would stay by Al and Finch would have come in with Romeo or Jojo or Buttons and Crutchie would have gone up to the roof with Cowboy. But, tonight, Al is at home with his father and his little sisters and Romeo is giggling in a corner with Buttons and Cowboy is nowhere to be seen. So, the three of them huddle together: survivors of a strange adventure. Racer pulls a jar of ointment from his bag and hands it to Crutchie. It’s a plain jar with an off white slightly opalescent cream, and Finch knows what it is: Magic. And, he scoots away and rolls over on the bed. He’s been to Brooklyn, but he doesn’t want this for himself.

* * *

Three weeks and three days and a strike and what used to be $1.19 (but is now rapidly dwindling to 37¢ because a boy has to eat), later, and Finch is following Racer across the Bridge again. And, for the record that no one is keeping, Finch thinks this might be a bad idea. In fairness to Finch, he thinks _a lot_ of the things Racer does are bad ideas, and so mabye it shouldn’t be surprising that this one is, too. Racer was fiddling while Rome burns and Cowboy is missing and Crutchie is languishing in the refuge. Still, it’s easy to get caught up in the moment when your face is in the paper and _The World_ knows that you mean business.

Even though it’s night and rent is twice the price (with no supper) if they don’t make it back to Duane Street by ten, they are walking in the wrong direction. They weave their way away from the square where the cops had beat them up. They weave their way away from Jacobi’s and Duane Street, which feel like some of the only safe places left in the city. They weave their way away from Crutchie and the looming House of Refuge that ate him whole. They weave their way toward the Bridge.

Before they step across, Racer stops him and gives him a copper penny and a handful of iron nails. He makes him swear that he won’t eat or drink, won’t take or leave, and most importantly, won’t steal once they cross the bridge. Do you swear? Do you swear? Do you swear? He does. He does. He doesn’t know why he has to say it again, but he does.

Racer holds up the jar of ointment for Crutchie’s leg and asks Finch if it’s a price he wants to pay. It will make the dark lighter, he says. Light like midday. But Finch will never be able to unsee what he sees tonight. May see the monsters he sees tonight for days or weeks or months or forever, how ever long that lasts. He might never be able to look again without seeing Magic. 

He watches as Race smears the ointment around his eyes until he wears a glowing glittering raccoon mask stark against his dirty face. Race holds it out to Finch. The dark won’t last forever and the monsters aren’t so scary in the light, he says. And Finch, who doesn’t need magic ointment to see monsters, hesitates anyway. And even though he thinks this is a bad idea, he smears it across his eyes like a bandit's mask. 

In the darkness, Brooklyn is quiet. It sleeps, like Manhattan does: gentle people tucked away in their beds in their apartments. In this stifling heat, they’re up on their roofs or out on thier fire escapes, too. Anything to make it cooler. And on the streets in alleys when they don’t have the money to pay for a safer place. And then, the dark places are alive with activity. Women and girls bend over patchwork by oil lamps, trying to find an extra few pennies from sewing late into the night. And, just below, women and girls and men and boys buy and sell their whole bodies instead of just their fingers and their eyes. Somewhere in the city, there are sweat soaked clubs filled with farro and dice and dancing; half naked women and liquor. There are police sirens and fire sirens and the sounds of mothers wailing for children who were carried away in the night. The monsters here are the same. The monsters here are different. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees what looks like a full sized crow man. And, when he turns his head, the boy stares back, his beady eyes unblinking. One of the laughing girls on the street pulling a man back toward what is probably her room in the brothel has inhumanly green skin and inhumanly sharp teeth. He thinks the subway grate might be tinkling as well and maybe… that was just a rat in a tiny top hat who was dancing?

The docks are looming skeletons at this time of night. The ships are closed up, either already unloaded and awaiting a new cargo or loaded up and awaiting the tide. On some, the crew sleeps but most only have a night watchman. And ghosts, Finch guesses, because no sane man would be sitting on the edge of a steam stack smoking a pipe. Or leaning out over the edge of the ship crying for America in a hundred languages. And, although he wants to look away, he can’t help but stare at the four masted schooner that sits at the end of the dock. The one that is fifty years out of date and fifty years and fifty gunshot holes past sea worthy. 

They find Spot Conlon almost alone, holding court for a coterie of dead children. He sits on a throne, for now Finch can see the pylon for what it is: a throne made of a wooden captain’s chair rescued from one of those old sailing ships and adorned with rope and brass, shoes and newspapers and suitcases, and headscarves. It’s a humble throne, and it screams of power in a way nothing else Finch has ever seen, or likely will see again if the rest of his life goes the way he hopes and not the way this night is indicating. Something in Finch fights the urge to bow. Or curtsey. Or… something.

Racer goes up to Spot, lounging on his throne amid his dead playmates, and reminds him that Spot owes him three wishes. For other people. And no, they won’t be curses. They can’t be curses, when they’ve been asked for, right?

And Spot laughs mirthlessly and says they’re only wishes if someone has already asked him. Just because Racer knows someone wants something doesn’t mean that Spot knows - and unlike some people Racer can break his word and he can lie. He may be a terrible liar, but he’s allowed to do it.

Racer bites his lip, and he asks anyway. He asks for Spot to let Crutchie out of the refuge. 

And Spot shakes his head and leans in toward a little boy with frost in his hair and a blue blush to his skin who whispers something to him. And, when he comes away, Spot’s cheek is rosy red against a stark paleness that comes from a January night when you know you will freeze if you do not come inside. Spot shakes his head, and says something quietly to the boy. And then, the little blue child goes to wherever the ghosts of children go when they’re not haunting to docks of Brooklyn. Spot is quiet for a long moment and then announces that it is not a wish nor a curse but it is not within his power to grant.

Racer looks like he’s going to cry. One of the ghostly girls, her hair a patchy black with something - reaches in her pocket for a handkerchief and she offers it to Racer. He shakes his head and tells her that she is kind.  
She sort of shrinks back, looks hurt, but does nothing more. And Finch remembers one of the rules he forgot about never thanking when there’s Magic about.

And then, Race sights in frustration and stamps is feet and wishes for Spot and Brooklyn to stand behind Cowboy’s strike. And Spot nods. This is a wish. This is not a curse and not beyond his power and the boys and girls and monsters of Brooklyn will stand behind Cowboy and Davey and Manhattan and their strike. No Brooklyn boy will cross the line to scab. No Brooklyn boy will betray them. 

And Racer nods and looks relieved and bites back the thanks that are doubtless on his tongue. And, Finch wonders at the specificity of those words: no Brooklyn boy will betray them. Well, neither will Manhattan!

Spot and Race spit shake, and the world changes. Finch doesn’t know how. Finch doesn’t know why. It’s like there’s a clap of thunder or a bolt of lightening or a blow to his head and the world is different and entirely the same. 

Racer sends him back ahead with a pair of little girls clad in old fashioned nightgowns and covered in pox scabs. They chatter and him and play tag and flit through the streets past the crow woman and the whores and the drunks and the sleepers. 

At the bridge, they weight, asking questions and demanding answers. What’s his name? Finch. No, his real name? He bristles. They can call him Finch and that’s all the name they need. What does he do? Sell newspapers. And where does he live? A house with a lot of boys. Across the Bridge. Oh, they say, you can’t cross the Bridge. On the other side is Manhattan, where the monsters live. In Manhattan, they’ll tell your past and your future for a promise in three months. And, they’ll ruin someone for you for a few stands of your hair as collateral. In Manhattan, they have dragons! Real ones that breathe fire. How can he go back there, to that frightening place and dragons and fortune tellers and slanders? He ought to stay here, in Brooklyn, where it’s safe!

As the girls start to go after him in ernest, Racer comes running up to chastise them. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are bright and his eyes are coated in a rim of sparkles beyond the ointment that dance across Finch’s own eyes. The girls start to beg, and Racer shoos them away with a word about sun rise. They scramble back to the docks, running to escape a threat Finch doesn’t understand. 

He and Racer step into the Bridge, and the night stays bright. They stop in the middle, an island between two quiet, sleeping cities, and drop their pennies in. They’re a gift - or maybe a payment - to the river for their safe passage from Manhattan and back again. And then, they make their way to the circulation gate, to stand against scabbers and stop the wagons and maybe kip out in one of the alleys if he gets a chance.

* * *

A strike and three weeks and three days later and Finch is following Racer back across the Bridge again. This time, Racer brings Al and Henry with him. Crutchie does not come. Crutchie was released from the refuge seven days ago and can barely stand from broken ribs and a busted up leg. Cowboy had found a place to take him, Miss Plumber’s maybe, or a hospital. Finch wonders if he’s using the ointment, if it’s helping. He wonders if anyone has a Magic that will help.

They walk to the bridge more quickly, the four of them selling what they have. And, even though he bought more papers than he normally does - more papers than perhaps he should have given that the four of them would be selling together and only selling in the morning - his bag is still empty as they approach the Bridge except for fifty seven cents and a bundle of twine. And, his pockets feel strangely empty too. 

He feels more confident that he did the last time, less scared and more hopeful. Perhaps this is a sign that his self preservation instinct is wearing thin. He’d only seen strange things for a few days after they returned, and most of the things he saw were not nearly as frightening as the world he’s used to. Ghosts have nothing on strangers who grab you in the street. Crow men have nothing on the hunger that creeps through your belly until you’re not sure you can stand being empty for another minute but you have to simply swallow the ache and continue going. Scaly beasts from the sewers are far less frightening than the prospect of the refuge. It’s not to say he doesn’t need to take care: the world of Magic is dangerous. But, so is his world.

Before they step across the bridge, Racer looks between the three of them. He reminds them not to eat anything and not to drink anything. Not to take anything and not to leave anything. And, for the love of all they care about, not to steal. 

The streets of Brooklyn are starting to feel alienly familiar. Al and Henry are wide eyed, though. They’re more careful than he had been: neither clutches a slingshot. But, Al’s knuckles are white where he grips the strap of his bag and Henry keeps jumping at shadows. For his part, Finch knows not to make bargains, but walking… he thinks they should be okay just walking. As long as they carry their bright copper pennies and their old iron horse shoe nails and swear that they won’t eat anything or drink anything, take anything or leave it. And, most importantly that they won’t steal anything once they cross The Bridge. 

And then, they step out over that water and go across the darkness, and Finch feels afraid. But, he swallows his fear and throws his shoulders back and simply continues walking. Walking, walking, walking until they step foot onto Brooklyn’s streets and everything looks the same again.

Finch is starting to learn the way to the docks. He thinks maybe a visit or two more and he will be able to find Spot Conlon all on his own. The thought does not chill him the way it should. The thought of coming back here should frighten him badly. Instead, he is entirely too comfortable with the idea. 

In the daylight, he can a faint special glow around perfectly ordinary looking boys and girls. A boy whose breath froze cheeks cheerfully offers a paper to a businessman. A girl whose dark braids are neat is working on embroidering a handkerchief by the pier. Spot’s throne - back to wood and nails and rope - is empty. 

Race looks at one of the boys who Finch is pretty sure isn’t dead (partially because he lacks that glow that isn’t a real glow and partially because he’d seen him in Manhattan during the strike) and nods up towards the throne. The kid shrugs, says Spots selling and he’ll be back. He says he’ll go find Spot and saunters off.

And, they settle in to wait. One of the boys pulls out a tin whistle and starts to play the sort of jaunty tune that makes you want to get up and dance. Some of the others do. The little blue boy, and the girl with the slick dark hair and one of the boys who pulls himself out of the water. Al looks like he wants to join them, but at Racers dark look keeps him to only toe tapping.

Still, when the song ends and a second starts, Al looks conflicted. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. The pipe continues. 

Finch doesn’t know how Al lacks the stories, lacks the context, how he doesn’t know to be afraid. His people come from Portugal, he thinks, but surely even there, they have Magic. And perhaps, if the whispers are true, they still do. A different Magic, one that Al and Davey won’t talk about. Hell, Al and Davey barely talk about what they have in common, but Finch has seen the fringe hanging from both their pants and the way they wear their caps carefully. Even then… growing up in Manhattan, no matter who your family used to be, you learn the rules. If you dance for a night, you may never make it home again. Al’s toes keep tapping and Racer nods along, stamping his foot at places in the song that he’s learned or he just think fit. The little blue boy and the little girls and the swimmer join hands and spin in a circle: faster, faster, faster as the whistle keens and a voice joins.

And then, it stops, the silence suddenly echoing more than the tune had.

Spot Conlon stands, looking out over the dock. It feels like they’ve been caught doing sometime forbidden, the way Spot looks at them. Finch remembers that look of concerned fury on his mother’s face when she caught him wearing trousers again. Or when Maria had climbed on a chair on the bed to get something from a high shelf and almost tumbled back down. They’d both gotten a lecture about being careful, filled with more fear and concern than anger. Although at six, the distinction hadn’t been so clear.

Spot glares at the boy with the pipe and little boy blue, and the others, and pulls off his bag, still heavy with papers. Each gets a stack, and the direction to come back when they’re sold. There is no question that they will bring the money back to Spot. No question and no room for argument.

Spot settles into his throne, looking a bit more like Finch’s mother than he thinks would be healthy to say. Spot glowers at Racer and demands to know why he’s here.

The story comes out. Racer won three wishes off Spot in a bet. He won’t say what the bet was, and neither will Spot. Spot rolls his eyes. Racer already spent one, but that doesn’t matter, because he’s here to collect one. He motions toward Al and Henry. And demands Spot make all their meat related dreams come true.

Finch doesn’t know how to answer that. Spot doesn’t know how to answer that. He raises his brows at Racer and Al and Henry and echoes the words. Meat related dreams. Sausage, specifically?

Finch manages not to blush, but only just. 

Lamb, and pastrami. ...And sausage, maybe, too, if they’re being honest. 

Finch does blush a little bit. Not because he has a problem with any of this, but because he’s not comfortable having this conversation out on an open pier with Spot Conlon, the King of Brooklyn, Racer who’s only ideas are bad ones, Al and Henry. He just… he can’t.

Spot shrugs. Sure, he can make people’s meat related dreams come true. He can make their petty little wants come true: a pair of new shoes with new laces, a hot bath with boiling water, a decent haircut, a sandwich, a cigar. Spot has heard these things, he knows these things. The only one he can’t give is that box at Sheepshead, because even Spot doesn’t have that kind of pull. At least, not for a single wish, and not for Racer.

And Racer nods and smiles. And Spot nods and smiles. And they shake hands.

One of the boys comes back, trailed by a tall, thin girl with a big floppy hair bow. Rosie. She introduces herself to Finch, and asks if he wants The Bargain, too. The kind that costs three dollars and three quarters and three pennies and will give them something they both desperately want. And he says yes, because how can he not?

And Rosie smiles and he smiles and they shake hands and go to tell Spot.

He tells them to come back in three weeks and three days to make their bargain, that it will cost them three dollars and three quarters and three pennies each. That they must be ready and they must be sure. That this is a bargain which cannot be undone and so they must be sure. And they promise they will be.

It’s Rosie who walks Finch and Al and Henry back to the Bridge. She and Finch talk quickly, comparing notes about their lives and what they want and what comes next. They both know. They both know what comes next and they both want it, and three weeks isn’t so long to wait, for this, is it? Three weeks and three dollars isn’t so much more.

Racer comes running before Finch starts to cry because what Rosie is saying just gives voice to what is inside him. The skin around Racer’s eyes sparkle, and his cheeks are flushed and his lips are red and bitten. And he shakes Rosie’s hand, and tells her he’ll see her soon. And then, Racer leads them across the bridge. And, out over the hungry East River, they drop in their pennies as an offering to the water.

And they go back to a Lodging House where the little wishes people have are coming true.

* * *

Three weeks and three days and three dollars and three quarters and three (no, four) pennies later, Racer is taking Finch across the Bridge again. And, for the record that no one is keeping, Finch is pretty sure that this is a bad idea. In fairness to Finch, he thinks a lot of the things he does are bad ideas. There was that time that he ate seven hotdogs because someone bet him he couldn’t do it and he threw up all night long. He once approached someone in the Five Points to sell them a paper before remembering that the Five Points isn’t territory for the Duane Street boys and running the hell out of there before he got his ass beat. And, there was the Christmas he went back to peek in his mother’s window, knowing that even though she’s remarried after his dad, she could still catch him and make him come home. He misses her and Maria so much, it feels like a deep ache inside his chest that he can’t avoid. But this… this is far worse. This is a Bargain with Spot Conlon. This is Magic. 

Racer and Jojo and Elmer walk with him toward the Bridge and his Bargain, working their way through their bags of papes. Racer’s smile is still full of guile. And Jojo’s is bright and open. Elmer is bright. And, Finch isn’t sure whether his face is wearing a smile or a grimace. And, even though he’s not selling the papes well, even though he probably bought too many and won’t be able to sell them back tonight because he won’t be going back tonight, even thought his was all probably a terrible idea and he’s making a terrible mistake… even though… suddenly, his bag is empty.

They go find a store here, in Manhattan, on this side of the bridge, and he uses the money that should be his seed money for tomorrow to buy some food. They talk about meat, because meat helps you heal, but he doesn’t have money for a whole chicken - live and squawking - and he doesn’t want to carry slimy chicken bits in his bag. So, he buys rice and vegetables and a little bit of bread. He wants the tastes of home, but there is no where to buy those foods. No where to buy them and no one to make them and he only half remembers the recipes he always refused because girls cooked and he’s not a girl. He never was.

Then, they go back to that bench by the bridge where he sat with Racer so long ago, and the others eat some bread and drink some water. He is so afraid that thinks if he eats, he might just throw it back up. And then they talk about what will happen. Racer makes Jojo and Elmer promise three times three that they will not eat anything, will not drink anything, will not take anything and will not leave anything in Brooklyn. And most importantly, that they will not steal. 

Jojo turns to Finch, and presses something into his hand: cold and hard and sharp against his right palm. And Elmer turns to him and presses something into his hand: cold and hard and sharp against his left palm. He opens his left had to see Joan of Arc, pressed off center into her tin metal. He opens his left hand to see San Lorenzo Ruiz. He had a metal of San Lorenzo, once, but the chain broke and the metal fell, and it felt like one more sign that he might be lost. And, Racer opens his palm and there sits a worn metal on a silver chain: Saint Patrick. Finch’s patron. He threads the other two onto the chain, and hands them over. 

Racer opens his pocket, and gives Jojo and Elmer and Finch an iron nail for their right pocket. And then he gives Finch salt and rowan for his left pocket. The twigs poke against his leg, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Finch has no idea where Racer found rowan in this city, or why he found rowan in the city, or why he needed to tell Finch, but it is essential that Finch know. 

And then, Racer makes Finch promise that he will not eat or drink anything he has not brought. He will not take anything he has not paid for and will not leave anything without an exchange. And that he will not steal. And somehow, the weight of the words feels different. 

And then, stomach rolling and rebelling, Finch walks across The Bridge with Racer and Jojo and Elmer. 

He is too afraid and too determined to pay attention to the streets, and the way that Brooklyn is growing familiar. He’s too afraid and too determined to notice as they draw closer to the docks. He’s too afraid and too determined to pick out the dead girls and boys from the live ones. It doesn’t matter now. He’s not sure anything matters now but this.

He shakes Spot Conlon’s hand, and Racer’s, and Rosie’s. And the girls Rosie has brought with her: Daisy and Beth. 

And then, they go to strike the Bargain. Spot sits in his chair, like a judge looking over his assembled court or a priest looking out over his congregation or a lord looking out over his serfs. Racer stands to his right and Little Boy Blue stands to his left. And before them, Rosie stands with Daisy and Beth behind her. And Finch stands with Jojo and Elmer behind him. The Bargain is far simpler than he would have expected: they hand the money to Spot: three wrinkled dollars and three quarters and three pennies each. And then, they ask each other to make a trade. And then they ask Spot if he will help them. He jingles the three pennies, and he asks the Sea and the River and the Borough. And, even though Finch can hear nothing, Spot must, because he says yes, and that the Sea and the River and the Borough say yes. And then, he takes them to Mrs O'Reilly's house. 

They go to a back room and they strip down and lie under crisp white sheets, boiled and hung to dry in the sun, and ironed smoothed before being laid out on the beds. 

And, even though he knows he ought not to, even though he’s excited and curious and wants to know what will happen, Finch falls asleep. 

The floor of the Grand Central Station waiting room is polished marble, polished so smooth that he can see his round face reflected back onto himself. He stands between the wooden double doors that open into the wide, grand hall. Along the walls where the passengers wait, a hundred figures sit. There are men and women, certainly. There are people with fairy wings and cat ears and feathers and tails. Their skin is a range: from the palest albino white to inky black to warm brown like his own. But, there are other shades: delicate petal pink and spring green, and the orange of falling leaves. There are women with kelp in their hair, and men with thorns instead of beards. They are wondrous and terrible. Finch’s shoes echo on the marble as he makes his way through the otherwise silent terminal, crying out the day’s headline. One hand clutches for the slingshot that should be in his belt, for the iron and salt that should be in his pockets, for the holy metal that should be at his neck. He feels entirely naked as he approaches the dais at the end of the hall, where three chairs wait. One is draped in covered in flowers, one covered in oak leaves and ivy, one made from ice. The sit silent and waiting, and he feels the room around him stand. He feels them stand, and he feels them sink to their knees in their best bows and best curtseys, but all he can do is stare at the empty thrones.

He wakes up in the dark, still covered in that crisp white sheet. Something is different and something is the same, and when he reaches up to his chest, the bandages he thought he took off are back. But… it doesn’t matter. He’s tired. He’s so tired. And, he slides back under. 

He is being chased across Central Park by a mass of horses. They blow horns he does not recognize and yet feels in his bones and ride horses and dogs and cats. The horses have human eyes and the rider’s eyes are like animals: foxes and snakes and raccoons. The horn blows again, and he knows he must run. He must hide. A deer, but not the kind of deer he sometimes sees in the park. This is older, more feral, with a rank of antlers and a forest of sharp points. The deer - elk he supposes - bellows and the horns sound and he knows in his bones that he Should Not Be Here. And so, he starts to run. Because there’s nothing else he can do? He starts to run, to run, to run. The Hunt is afoot, and anyone who is out can be hunted.

He wakes up again, blinking as sunlight lances through glass windows. He’s still in the bed, but a screen has been drawn up between his bed and the other. He feels… his throat feels full of gravel and glass and his chest hurts and he cannot bring himself to regret this, not at all. A pair of hands come to help ease him up, and to press a cup of something into his hands. They help him drink, the milk sliding down his throat to soothe it. And then they ease him back down and he tumbles back into sleep. 

The world spins and flashes and bright colors flash across his vision. A hundred thousand stars falling from the sky to the earth and turning into dancing couples out across a midnight blue lake. They dance, turning circles and spirals to fiddles and pipes and singing that makes him want to join their dance. Elegant ladies in dresses of the impossible: quicksilver and flower petals sewn like chainmail and spider’s silk. And, their partners wear tophats made of moonbeams and suits of pigeon feathers and waistcoats of paper thin slices of beef. They spin in a reel, faster and faster and faster, until it seems like the entire world is turning in circles, the entire world is a kaleidoscope of pigeon wings and spiders silk, of quicksilver and moonlight and slices of beef. The whole world spins, spins, spins, spins.

The third time he wakes, he’s sore and confused and feels truly lucid for the first time. Before, the world had spun and danced like he was caught in one of the motes of dust caught in a shaft of light. The world feels more certain now. More certain and more stable and like he’s back in his body instead of wherever he was before. He eases himself up, his arms sore with something that he doesn’t understand, and opens his mouth to call out, his voice rough in a way that it shouldn’t be.

And, Jojo’s there, with another cup of milk and a newspaper. He looks rough, like he hasn't been sleeping. Or like he’s been spending his nights in Brooklyn instead of at Duane Street. But, Jojo looks the same. And, the newspaper is dated tomorrow in 1899, so unless it’s a lie, they haven’t been caught in one of those terrible faerie rings that keeps you for a hundred years. Jojo says the others are asking about him. His voice is still too weak to let him answer, so Jojo gives him milk and then goes and brings him soup, fragrant with rosemary and thyme and sage. It tastes good.

He’s still too weak to leave the bed, and he blushes as Jojo helps him to use the chamber pot. But, they make it through and he falls back against his pillows, barely able to whisper a word of thanks. Jojo brushes it off as nothing more than what a friend might do (careful words to be spoken in Brooklyn) and then helps him lie back again so he can sleep.

He has no more dreams.

It takes a full day before he can sit up in bed for more than a few minutes and feed himself. He doesn’t understand why his body is so tired and so sore, but he is exhausted. Strangely, not in pain, despite the bandages wrapped tight around his chest and the scratchiness in his throat. But, all he wants to do now is fall into the deep dreamless sleep that has consumed him since he saw Jojo.

It takes another day before he can walk around the room. He feels better once he has, although he’s still tired. Mostly, he eats and sleeps and listens to Jojo or El or Racer talk about what’s happening in the streets and tries to read the papers they bring him. He doesn’t say much - he’s still waiting for his voice to come back - and he can’t move much, but it’s good. 

On the third day, Finch is starting to worry. And, he can see the strain start to eat at Rosie. They’ve both gotten to the point where they can sit up, can walk around the apartment, and Finch can whisper. Finch isn’t sure how long it will take before he’s well enough to go back to Duane street, let alone to work. And, that frightens him. He made a bargain for something he desperately wanted, but that doesn’t mean he wants to starve because he didn’t save enough to heal. 

And then, Spot comes. He’s quieter, somehow, more subdued. He looks between the two of them and shakes his head. He asks to know how they feel and when Finch rasps something and Rosie still can’t say much above a whisper, he mutters something and goes to make them tea. There’s part of Finch that knows he shouldn’t drink anything here, and there’s part of him that doesn’t care. He fishes in his empty bag and finds a penny, and pushes it toward Spot in payment. Because payment matters. And, Rosie does the same. And then, they drink their tea. It’s bitter and dark, with a strange sheen on the top. But, when he drinks it, Finch’s throat feels normal again, like nothing has changed. And, Rosie’s voice comes back, a gentle contralto. His voice stays where it has been for a while, settling into something deeper. But, it cracks a few times like the other boys. Cracking is good, Finch thinks. Cracking means that his voice still might settle.

And then, Spot asks them how the feel, and when Finch admits he’s tired, Spot goes to the kitchen and comes back with soup. It’s the same soup that they’ve been eating, and part of Finch knows he shouldn’t eat Spot’s soup, but he’s hungry and he’s tired. And so, he slides another penny across the table - hoping that he’ll have enough for seed money for tomorrow - and he drinks the soup. It feels like the fog of fatigue that has kept him tied to his bed has lifted. Like he’ll be able to keep his eyes open a bit longer. Like maybe tomorrow he’ll be able to get up at dawn with the rest of the boys and work. 

And then, Spot asks them if they’ve changed their bandages. Or even peeked. Finch shakes his head, and Rosie nods, and Spot sighs. Starting from today, they need to wash their whole bodies and change their bandages every three days. It’s better if they can do it with salt. Finch goes to the pockets that aren’t there because he’s wearing a nightshirt instead of pants. And Spot tells him that it’s uncomfortable to lie in salt for days and its better to sleep without pants anyway, but that it’s there, making a tidy pile on Mrs O’Reilly’s rug. But that even though salt will protect them from Magic, it won’t affect what’s been done, just help them heal. The bargain is good, but it’s hard to remove something that was there without leaving a mark. 

Spot pulls two small twists of brown paper out of his pocket, the wrapping already greasy from the contents and hands them over. Finch finds one more penny to slide to Spot who nods. He untwists the paper, finding a pungent pale blob that smells of rosemary and thyme and some herbs he doesn’t know but smell intensely Green. And then faintly of something sweet that might be bee’s wax. It’s for when they change their bandages: morning and evening, to be applied generously. It will help. And, in three weeks, they can take them off. Any they have left they can keep for four more weeks (it will last them seven) and then give back to the East River. 

Spot helps them to the bath: Rosie first, and then Finch. His rough hands are gentle and entirely non-threatening and he guides Finch to the tub and then leaves him to undress. Finch doesn’t know when the King of Brooklyn - the most frightening newsie in all of New York - became a boy not much older than he is who makes dumb jokes and pets dogs and talks just a bit too much about Racer for them to be anything but friends. (Finch also doesn’t know when Racer became best friends with the most feared newsie in New York.) And then, clean and dry and full, Finch falls back into a dreamless sleep.

Walking back to the Bridge to Manhattan feels strange. He has a small bag of his things: what’s left of the the salt he brought, and the newspapers from Jojo that might have been a lie and might not, and a roll of his own bandages, washed as clean as they can be and ready to be wrapped the way Mrs O’Reilly showed him for another few days and Spot’s lump of greasy salve. He’s strangely light and strangely unsteady, but he manages the walk. He will manage to sell tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, as long as no one has taken his spot in Manhattan. And, maybe he won’t be ready to venture back to Brooklyn for a while, maybe he won’t be strong enough to venture back to Brooklyn for a while, but if he does, he doesn’t think he’ll be afraid any longer. And that’s a reason to stay away all on its own.

Racer meets him there, leaning against a street light. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are red, and the skin around his eyes sparkle when you look at them sideways and he smiles when he sees Finch. They walk back over the bridge together, dropping a penny in the water as they leave. And then, they walk slowly home to Duane Street, to healing, to removing bandages, and to a bargain made good.

* * *

Finch doesn’t know what to think anymore. He thought once he’d made the bargain, he’d be free of Brooklyn. And, he has been. His chest has healed, leaving behind only silvery lines, and his voice has settled so that the others only tease him about cracking occasionally, and his beard is starting patchily. (A few of the boys had laughed and reminded him that plenty of men wore their faces clean shaved because they couldn’t grow beards either.) It feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, like he’s been holding his breath and he can finally let it out, like a sort of freedom. He’d thought once he was done with the bargain, he’d be free. And, instead, Racer and Crutchie are asking him to cross the Bridge again.

And so, three months and three weeks and three days later, he once again, he and Crutchie and Racer and Jack and Davey are making their way toward Brooklyn. The air is cold, carrying the frosty kiss of December and the day is already growing short even though it feels like the sun just rose. Last week, when Finch slipped into the back of the Church, the priest was wearing pink, but this Sunday, he will wear purple again before slipping back into white. The streets of Manhattan are crowded with people preparing for a holiday. And, even though there are four of them, with at least three hundred and fifty papes between them, they still sell out before they reach the Bridge.

They stop by a tree that Crutchie can lean against and blow on his hands. Jack stamps his feet and tries to pull his cap lower over his ears. Racer fishes in his pockets and hands Finch and Jack and Davey an iron nail and a copper penny. He makes them swear three times three to swear that they won’t eat anything and won’t drink anything, won’t take anything and won’t leave anything, and most importantly, that they won’t steal anything. 

And then, he turns to Crutchie and pulls out an iron nail and a penny, and a small bag of salt and a bundle of rowan twigs. He holds them out, and asks if Crutchie is sure. He looks away, shrugs, doesn’t know. So, Racer asks again: is he sure? And Crutchie laughs and asks if anyone is sure.  
Finch isn’t sure what they’re talking about, but it makes him nervous.

They wait, leaning against the tree in the cold and quiet. The air is sharp and even though they’re in the city, its strangely still. Like the way a knife looks before it falls onto the head of some hapless chicken at the butcher’s shop. 

And, finally, Crutchie takes the salt and puts it in his pocket, and he takes the rowan, and the penny, and says that yes, he is ready. He supposes he has to be. If they do not do this now, there will be no other chance, will there? And Racer doesn’t say anything at all, but Finch knows it's true.

Racer pulls out the ointment, and again, offers it around. What they see they will never be able to unsee, and if they do this, they may see monsters forever. But, they will see today, if that matters to them.

Crutchie takes it, and smears a mask across his face. Finch is more circumspect, dabbing it against his eyelids. Jack and Davey refuse.

Together, and somehow an invisible line already between them, they walk out onto that Bridge: iron and concrete, a triumph of man over the natural world and the river herself. They walk across, four abreast, the wind whipping at them until the only sound is their footsteps and their breath and the way the wind whistles.

The docks are quiet and emptier than the summer or fall. There are fewer steamships that come in to port after snow starts. Spot waits for them outside the dock, looking nervous in a way Finch has never seen him. The key around his neck gleams in the yellow gray shaft of winter sunlight and the reflection catches against the pink of his suspenders. Little Boy Blue - recognizable by his face and by the spectral light around him, stands behind him. Spot nods, and they all shake hands. It’s all Finch can do not to wince at the cold of the spectator's hand. But, he manages. Barely.

Spot turns to Crutchie and asks him again if he’s ready and if he’s sure. Jack reaches out to grip Crutchie’s shoulder, tells him that he doesn’t have to do this. And Crutchie swallows a lump in his throat and nods at Spot. He doesn’t say the words, maybe he can’t lie anymore. They say Spot can’t, either.

Spot leads them to a warehouse with a padlocked door, and they wait outside. Just for a few more people. Only a few more need to come. Rosie arrives, a scarf wrapped around her neck. When the wind whips at it, he can see the faint silvery scar across her throat. There’s a boy who Finch thinks belongs in Harlem but not here. And then, there’s a change in the world and Finch can’t see anything but a shifting of some dead leaves caught in the wind, but Racer’s eyes widen and Spot shrinks back, so he guesses whoever is supposed to join them has come.

Spot uses the key around his neck to unlock the door and holds it open for the others. Little Boy Blue goes first, then Crutchie, Jack, Davey, Racer, Finch, Rosie, the stranger, and finally Spot.

The floor of the warehouse is checkerboard of polished marble, polished so smooth they can see their faces reflected back. The walls are white marble and white plaster with sunlight streaming in, despite the anemic gray tone outside. The hall is wide, lined with heavy dark wooden railway benches. The end of the warehouse, where the train schedule board waits, is too far away to be seen. Spot comes forward, stands next to Crutchie, and they take a step forward, onto black stone, their steps thundering through the empty hall. And then, Jack and Racer follow. And then Rosie and the Davey. And then the stranger and Finch and Little Boy Blue. And then a trio of figures who Finch can only see out of the corner of his eye.

As he crosses that massive room, Finch can start to see the figures who sit on those benches, waiting for a train that is never coming. There are men and women, dressed in a hundred costumes from a thousand places. Men and women with hollow eyes who were packed onto ships by choice or in chains and brought to a new land yearning to be free. Their skin are a hundred colors, from the palest albino white to inky black to the warm brown of his own. And, in among the other natural shades, there are other colors: the red of a cranberry, the green of a pine bough, the silvery blue-black of ice against pavement. There are women with kelp in their hair and men with horns curling around their top hats. They are here and they are real and Finch is terrified. His right hand goes into his throat and chest to clutch at the metals wrong there, hot against his skin. His left hand feels in his pocket for the iron nail that should be there, but all he finds is a hole instead. Without that iron nail, he feels naked and afraid as he approaches the end of the long hall whether the schedule board should be. He knows, instinctively, that something else will be there. And he feels something past fear. It doesn’t sit in his stomach like fear normally does, it coils into his muscles and makes it feel like every movement is fighting against a stream. 

With the number of people in the hall, there should be noise. A quiet whisper of breath or the low rumble of voices. But, the only sound as they continue along the room is the sound of their steps: Crutchie’s thump step and faint whisper of Davey’s shoes that brush along the pavement, and the crisp click of Spot’s low boots. 

Finally, finally, after what seems like miles, they can see the end of the room. At the end, sits a dais with three thrones. One is shrouded in constantly shifting darkness in light, accented with shells, shark’s teeth, and whale bone. The second is made from the wood of the docks and wharfs, held together with nails made from gold and tied off with rope made of what can only be hair. The third throne is the simplest, and yet the most complex of all. It’s a carved wooden chair, made from a hundred woods and yet one at the same time. It’s taken from a dining set in someone’s parlor, a grandmother’s precious heirloom that she brought over from the old country that her father’s father made for her grandmother’s wedding. It’s seat is covered with a headscarf, and for the life of him, Finch can’t tell where it comes from. It may be the embroidered scarf that the Jewish women wear, or a length of colorful cloth that the black woman wrap around their heads, or a lace mantilla, or a bridal veil, or a baby blanket or a funeral shroud. It’s all and its none and somehow it makes perfect terrible sense. And, there’s a basket next to the chair, with sewing and carving and matches to be made by the waning light of a kerosene lamp.

As they approach the dais, Spot and Crutchie stop. And the rest have to stop as well, to avoid running into them. They could have walked together, there was enough space, but they haven’t. And, in that stillness, Finch can hear footsteps behind them making their way up to the platform. And, when he looks up, there are three figures. Women, he thinks, but he can’t look at them and he can’t look away, and they keep changing like the tides and clouds and the people who pass by his corner on a day of selling papers.

And then Spot says that he and Crutchie have come to make a bargain. That he wants to trade a future for a past and a present and that it’s time for a new king in Brooklyn. The figures on the dais speak words Finch doesn’t recognize or understand. But Spot and Crutchie seem to. He looks at the people behind him, who have fanned out so they form a little semi-circle standing behind Spot and Crutchie. Spot turns and points to each of them. He’s brought Finch who he helped and Hotshot, the strange Newsie, who he hurt. There’s Jack who betrayed him and Little Boy Blue, who he betrayed. Rosie, who he claims, and Racer who has laid claim to him. And, he’s brought Crutchie to be his successor.

And the voices whisper something with the sound of leaves blowing across pavement and the clip of horse’s hooves and the lap of waves against wood. 

And Crutchie looks behind him, and with that wide smile on his face, looks out at his friends and says that he’s brought Jack who’s laid claim to him and David who he lays claim to, and that he promises to balance the scales and help more than he will hurt. His hands are white on his crutches, and his knee trembles a bit, but his voice and his gaze are steady as he looks up at the dais. 

Spot tells them that he’s done his best, that he’s served for as long as they asked, and that it’s time to find a replacement. It’s time to find someone else because he won’t be a tithe and he won’t break their ride and none of it makes sense to Finch but the figures know what he means. Spot repeats, emphatic and certain, banging his wooden stick on the ground: he will not be the tithe and he will not break the ride and he will not die here for a bet or a bargain that was struck when he was an ignorant, innocent child.

And then Crutchie says that he’s coming in with his eyes open. Finch sees the rings of fairy ointment there, heavy around Crutchie’s eyes. Crutchie is coming in with open eyes and fifteen years of knowledge of the world - which is seven more than where Spot started - and more ties, yes, but also more chances. 

The voices say something, and Finch doesn’t know what they are demanding, only that it is precious and a price to pay. Crutchie holds his ground, even though his leg shakes, and says that he will have the same bargain as Spot: seven cycles of seven years where he will find a sacrifice and if he cannot find one, he will stand in. Seven times seven years with a bet at the end. 

Finch knows his ears must be lying: for that to be true, Spot would have to be fifty but he doesn’t look much more than fifteen. 

They will accept, the voices say, if he will bounce his claims on the mortal world and come to them fully. He must renounce his friends and his brothers. He may not have companions, only subjects. And no lovers.

Jack steps forward, cries out with a voice that is ripped from his throat. It’s Charlie who retorts that Jack is his brother, that his betrayal of Crutchie and Spot and Finch and the Newsies doesn’t matter as much as what has let stand. He’s his brother, and surely, in a world like this, with a transition like this, and nearly a year to settle in, support from Manhattan won’t hurt Brooklyn. It will bolster his reputation, rather than ruining it. And isn’t that the important part for making bargains and granting wishes and slinging curses: trust and belief? How better to build that than with the backing of others? He will carry not just his own power and theirs, but that of Manhattan, of Queens, of Flushing and Woodside and Richmond. And the voices seem to agree.

The voices rumble and swirl and confer. And, they seem to agree . 

Spot smiles in relief. Crutchie smile in relief. And Spot goes to take the key from his neck.

And then, there’s a shout. There is one more thing! There has been theft in Brooklyn, theft which has gone unprosecuted for too long. Racer cannot lay claim to Spot while also stealing from him.

Finch feels the air ripped from his lungs. Of all the things they’d had to promise, of all the things they’d said, he runs it back through his mind: had Racer ever promised not to eat, not to drink, not to take things or leave them? Had Racer ever promised them he wouldn’t steal? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think so. But, if he has, is it a betrayal? Does it mean that he will have to pay this Tax they keep yelling about?

Spot turns, and holds out his hand for Race who comes forward. Nothing about his careful swagger gives away the fear he’s probably feeling, standing before that occupied dais. Finch remembers his fear when he stood in this room before an unoccupied one. Racer goes and stands next to Spot and slips his hand into the other boys.

It’s not stealing if it was freely given. Spot’s voice is flat. It’s not stealing if its freely given and what Racer said he stole Spot gave freely to him in exchange for what he gave back. Spot plants his feet and turns and kisses Racer, before the River and Bridge and Borough and the assembled courts and the rest. He kisses and he claims him and he discharges any debt and any talk of theft. The time he spent was his own: even he’s allowed time for himself. The kisses he gave were his, and his alone to give, the ones Racer accepted came with no further debt and no further price. They kiss again, and Racer comes away with flushed cheeks and red lips and sparkles around his eyes if you look at them at the right angle.

The voices from the dais seem to sigh, and agree, and possibly mutter something about young love and at least the whole thing is tidier than the whole Carter affair. 

And Spot snatches the key off his neck, and carefully places it over Crutchie’s head. And it is Done. The bargain is Done and he is free.

The figures rise. Finch has an overwhelming urge to bow. And so, he does. And, the others around his seem struck by the same necessity. Anything to look away. Anything to not see these apparitions leave. 

When the hair on the back of his neck settles, and the air seems to be quiet again, Finch slowly looks up. They’re in an empty warehouse, the walls the same rough wood of every other warehouse on the block, and the floor is covered in a layer of dust and sawdust. It’s cold in a way it wasn’t before, Finch’s breath visible in the air as they turn to leave. They troop out quietly, even though the spell has been broken, they don’t speak until they leave the warehouse. 

And then, standing around the dock, Crutchie says he’ll stay in Brooklyn tonight, start coming here and finding a place to sell and working with Spot. And Racer shrugs, and leans into Spot and says he’s gonna stay the night too, but he’ll be back in Manhattan tomorrow. Jack just sort of throws up his hands and bites his lip until Davey pulls him aside to say something in his ear.

Little Boy Blue walks them to the Bridge, but its up to Finch to lead them across. And so, out in the middle, over the water, he drops in his penny and they do too. And none of them say anything on the way back to Duane Street. What is there left to say when your wishes have been granted, your bargains have been made, and you’ve been given everything you wanted? Nothing, but to keep living and wondering, and working. Nothing but to try to figure out why you thought this was a good idea all along.

**Author's Note:**

> So, umm, this just kind of happened. And, I still haven’t decided if I should apologize, because it doesn’t feel like a Christmas story, but it does feel right for magic. So, yeah, if it wasn’t quite what you were hoping for, let me know and I’ll write something else.
> 
> Contextual/Historical Notes:
> 
>   * Hike was a term for Italian/Sicilian immigrants used in the 1880s-1890s but may have been more common in Philadelphia than New York. 
>   * Mick is reference to being Irish (Catholic) even though this is the 1890s and Racer is (probably) half english rather than Irish. Although somehow I always write Catholic Race. 
>   * Filipino Finch is based on Aaron J Albano who originated the role in the Original Broadway Cast. The Philippines became a US territory as part of the Spanish American War, the end of which indirectly caused the Newsie’s strike. However, mass Filipino immigration didn’t really start in earnest until the mid 1910s-1920s. So, the immigrant experience here may be slightly different? And also, Ive probably not addressed it well enough 
>   * A new waiting room was opened in Grand Central Terminal in 1900. The design of this reading room semi assumes something between the modern terminal which opened in 1913 and what Im sort of imagining… but either way, the waiting room is somewhat anachronistic. Still, there’s magic, so does train anachronism bother you that much? 
>   * Joan of Arc is often considered a queer icon in the Catholic Church and her story would have been well known in the 1890s 
>   * San Lorenzo Ruiz is the patron Saint of the Philippines 
>   * Saint Patrick because he’s Patrick “Finch” Cortez and in traditional Catholicism, your name indicates your patron saint and your name from baptism. So, even though it might be giving away Finch’s True Name (which is a whole fun faery concept), it’s also the other boys calling him by his name. 
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns, suggestions, or commentary about favorite christmas carols or ballads all welcome!


End file.
